Internet Downtime
by PrettyArbitrary
Summary: Sherlock and John discover that the internet contains all sorts of disturbing things.


**Internet Downtime**

Written for a prompt on the Sherlockbbc_fic kink meme: .?thread=54384740#t54459236

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><p>John clicked the 'post' button and watched the 503 error pop up for a fourth time. "Bloody internet."<p>

Sherlock flicked a glance at him over his newspaper. "Problems with your blog?"

"_Yes._" With some effort, John restrained himself from hitting his keyboard. "What was my tell?"

"My site's down too. It seems Moriarty's had our hosting providers DDoSed. Remarkably childish, even for him." Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Unless it's the opening gambit to some scheme, of course..."

The idea sounded so bizarre that John failed to immediately understand his flatmate's statement. "Wait, you're saying he took our _websites_ down? What in the world is that supposed to accomplish?" Also, what in God's name was a deedos?

Sherlock shrugged and returned to his paper. "We'll see in due time."

Two days later, John got a text from Harry:

**_ Hey Johnny you and your boyfriend r trending on twitter._**

John sent a text back—_Not my boyfriend_—and then checked on her claim. "Sherlock? Did you know we have a hash tag?"

Sherlock didn't look away from his bunsen burner. "Everything has a hash tag, John."

"I can't possibly have this many readers. ...Oh blimey."

The blank shock in his voice captured Sherlock's attention. He circled the kitchen table to stand over John's shoulder and read. "'The science of deduction is nonsense anyway. As if anyone could do that in real life?'" His voice rose in outrage. "What is this?"

"They're arguing over whether we're fictional." Vastly bemused, John scrolled down. "Look, here's one fretting over whether Moriarty's got us." He shook his head. "How would we pull our sites down if someone'd killed us?"

"Hm." Sherlock rubbed his hand over his mouth. "Could that be his aim somehow?"

"What? Real-life explosions don't have enough verve for him so he's moved on to flame wars? Oh bloody hell," he snarled, catching sight of another tweet. "These people too! _Why_ is everyone so obsessed with whether we're in a relationship?"

Sherlock's derisive snort summed up his opinion neatly.

When John came home the next day, Sherlock lifted his head from the arm of the sofa to peer at him over the purloined laptop resting on his stomach. "They're writing stories!"

"Good for them." John studied the interior of the fridge for a moment before nudging aside a stack of petri dishes to make room for the milk. "Who is?"

"_People._ On the internet. They're writing stories about us." John frowned over his shoulder, fairly certain this didn't sound like something that deserved the enthusiasm Sherlock was giving it. "Some of them are quite clever, actually. Much better than your blog. You could learn a few things, John."

"Sod off." He put the kettle on. "Why in the world do you care?"

"Because if you were a better writer, you could represent- Oh. You mean the stories." Sherlock threw his legs sideways off the sofa and sat up. "Because it's _interesting_ to see how others perceive me. Clearly your blog has a wider readership than either of us realized. Odds are quite good I'll interact with someone familiar with it at some point. Imagine how useful it will be to know what they expect from me!"

John rolled his eyes. "So you can manipulate them, in other words."

"Quite."

The day after that, Sherlock and John walked into Lestrade's bullpen at Scotland Yard to be greeted with a riotous—and bawdy—standing ovation. They stopped together just inside the doorway, thrown off by the torrents of applause and catcalls. John picked out 'Took you sodding long enough,' 'Well done, you!' and 'Get a room already!'

"I feel like a bachelor at his stag night," he muttered after a moment.

Sherlock stared down Lestrade when the man came out of his office to wave his people down. "What's going on?"

"Nothing that's anyone's business," Lestrade answered with peculiar force. His face sported a faint pinkish glow.

Sherlock spun on his heel and made straight for the cluster of desks the Detective Inspector had just valiantly avoided glaring at, and snatched up a sheaf of freshly printed papers. When he went dangerously still a moment later, John crossed over to snatch them from his hands.

"Oh my," he said faintly.

Lestrade and half the room had the grace to look mortified. The rest seemed about to swallow their tongues in glee. Donovan just looked pissed.

"Um." Face stinging with a violent blush, John laid the documents down on the desk with delicacy befitting an explosive device.

Sherlock binned the ones he still held, giving them a backhand spin vicious enough to turn the paper into a cutting weapon. "A violent criminal on the loose and you lot are trading rubbish porn," he sneered. "If I had ever been in doubt how the Yard could possibly manage to accomplish so little in a day, that mystery is now _solved._ Lestrade, the case if you please!" He waved a hand imperiously toward Lestrade's office and strode off.

Rather than following immediately, John looked around, tapped a thoughtful finger against the papers, and smiled at the room at large. "If I ever hear a word breathed about this again, I will actually murder the person responsible."

The day after that, to John's overwhelming relief, their sites were back up. Given what he had borne witness to in the last few days, a blog update seemed advisable.

**_ Had some internet problems for a few days. Finally fixed, though. Sorry about that._**

**_ Gosh there are a lot of you._**

**_ It's true, you know. Sherlock might act like a character from a story sometimes, but he really can do the things I've said._**

Which, so far as John was concerned, put an end to that. On the other hand, Sherlock was now sulking, which was not necessarily preferable.

"Is it the humiliation, the violation of our privacy, or the absurd speculation you're pining for?" John finally snapped at him.

Sherlock hunkered down in his chair like an offended hawk, steepled fingers pressed up under his nose. "I still can't figure what this was all in aid of! What _purpose_ could it possibly serve?"

John shrugged, not much caring since it appeared no one had actually died, and checked his email messages. He was surprised to find that someone had already left a comment.

**_ Comment from Anonymous:_**

**_Just a taste of what's out there._**

**_So that you know why I'm always giggling when I see you two._**

**_xoxoxo_**


End file.
